


To Extend a Tendril of the Heart

by Who Shot AR (akerwis)



Category: Sense and Sensibility (1995)
Genre: 19th Century, America, Community: three weeks for dw, Dinner, F/M, Post-Canon, Regency, Transfic Mini Fest, Transgender, letter-writing, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/pseuds/Who%20Shot%20AR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Henry Dashwood, explorer of the dangerous seas near the South Pole, attends a dinner party and gains hopes for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Extend a Tendril of the Heart

It was a well-known fact that Mr. Dashwood, of note for having come nearer the South Pole than any other man in Boston (and then for having come to write about it most thrillingly), had some queer ways about him. Among the more notable was his insistence on shaking the hand of each person he met with a robust sort of joviality, regardless of their sex. This came as a great surprise to some of those ladies in attendance at Mrs Willander's soiree who had not previously had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but his long sojourns far from gentle company were generally accepted as reason enough for his occasional eccentricities.

"Isn't it true, Mr. Dashwood, that you had the honour of meeting William Clark?" inquired Mrs. Willander, more for the benefit of the young man and woman also listening than for herself. For her own self, she was very pleased to have such a young luminary in her home, as proud as she might be of her own child (or perhaps of a garden which bloomed with particular beauty). Their acquaintance had been fashioned some years ago, in part due to matronly concern as to Dashwood's welfare so far from his family in Devonshire; his name's new cachet from his explorations seemed to Mrs. Willander a great reward to reap from taking a shine to the lad when he was as a stranger in a strange land.

"I have," Mr. Dashwood replied, his broad smile making itself known at the remembrance of that happy day. "I had business in Missouri, which as you _must_ know--" for he really could not understand why anyone would not bother to be aware of this information--"is where Mr. Clark now makes his home."

"Was he pleasant?" asked the young woman, who had been introduced to him that evening as Miss Lucretia Morton. At her side was her elder brother, Mr. Francis Morton, a few years Mr. Dashwood's junior and yet several times more serious in appearance than Mr. Dashwood felt he ever might manage.

"He invited me to stay for dinner and kept a very agreeable table," Mr. Dashwood replied, "and if you have ever spent very much time aboard a ship, you are aware that is much more important than pleasantries."

Miss Morton appeared taken aback for a moment, then laughed. Mr. Dashwood joined her, unable to help admiring the way her brown eyes crinkled half-closed with her amusement, and then, Mr. Morton.

"A fine time to mention dinner," Mrs. Willander said. "I believe ours must be ready. Do excuse me; I must go inquiring."

Though she bustled off, Mr. Dashwood's audience did not disperse with her; he found it quite satisfying to recount to Mr. Morton and Miss Morton the stories he learned from Mr. Clark about exploring the Mississippi River until dinner was officially called.

-

Mr. Dashwood could not be certain if he had originally been seated at Miss Morton's right hand, or if that had been a recent contrivance on Mrs. Willander's part. He similarly could find no displeasure in his seat at the dining table; Miss Morton proved to be an amiable dinner companion, as willing to tell her own stories as she was to listen to his. She spoke mostly of books she had enjoyed, pieces she had recently mastered upon the piano.

"I have not lived half so exciting a life as you, of course," she told him demurely, over an entree of mutton roasted with oysters.

"It sounds very charming to me," Mr. Dashwood assured her. "I could never master the piano; it required more discipline than I was willing to give it."

She nodded with an expression of understanding; the light in the dining room lent an especially becoming air to her round face and the shine of her dark hair. "It can be a difficult instrument to devote oneself to."

The desire came over him suddenly to reply that while his talents at music were lacking, his elder sisters had each found solace in it; the memory of Marianne's tastes for songs with titles that conjured up skylarks and thunderstorms was bright in his mind. He said instead, "It can," and directed a question to the man seated across from them.

-

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morton," Mr. Dashwood said, as the night came to a close, "and you, Miss Morton."

"Likewise," Mr. Morton said, and they shook hands. Miss Morton echoed him quietly, proving now shyer than she had been since Mrs. Willander had drawn her into conversation on the subject of American explorers.

"I should like to come to call this week, if you would find that convenient," Mr. Dashwood said, his gaze returning to Mr. Morton.

"I imagine that would be agreeable," answered Mr. Morton, and nodded.

Next to him, Miss Morton replied, "We shall look forward to your coming, Mr. Dashwood."

Her smile stayed with him as he found Mrs. Willander to make his goodbyes, and through the entire carriage ride home.

-

Once more within his rented rooms, he built up the fire with great satisfaction--the joy of setting firewood alight had yet to dissipate to the point that he was willing to allow anyone else to do it--and sat down to his writing-desk. There were letters to answer and accounts to be balanced; as he found the latter less appealing than the former, he dug out the latest message he had received from England and a fresh sheet of paper.

_My dear Marianne,_ he wrote, and found himself staring at the page with some consternation; choosing what to make mention of in his epistle. Marianne's letters--for she had taken on the mantle of scribe to the Dashwood family's prodigal son--were filled with incidental stories of how young Nell had scraped an elbow and Edward had acquired a hound quite against Elinor's wishes. (They also contained long descriptions of the current appearance of Delaford, focusing particularly on the minutiae of melting snow and the sound of the wind within the trees. He could not mind for, no matter how interminable those paragraphs occasionally might be, they had the power to draw him back to his childhood homes in a way he found strangely comforting.)

Normally, he would respond in kind, with whatever anecdotes came to mind at that moment; it was simple enough when he was asea, with no end of stories to tell (carefully, for any amount of time spent in the presence of sailors would be inappropriately bawdy to make uncensored mention of in a letter one's mother would hear). Tonight, however, his thoughts seemed to center entirely on Mrs. Willander's dinner party and, more importantly, on a pair of small hands, gesturing delicately as punctuation to stories of hearth and home.

And he could not make mention of Miss Morton to them.

It was a secret, long-standing hypothesis of his that his request to be called by his father's name had been received by his family as as an extended jest--a lark akin to his childhood attachment for the fortress built in a tree at Norland. Or, perhaps, a ruse to make more easy his way in the world of exploration, which was certainly not known for being welcoming to women.

He had taken the precaution of only making his desire known by letter, just before boarding a ship to America, after taking the family atlas and one of Edward's old suits, and leaving behind his long, golden brown curls; in the years intervening, he had spent perhaps four months in the country, and had avoided studiously any possibility of running across his family. The possibility of their calling him _Margaret_ was too great, or of using his name with a wink and a smile; they had always played along with his games (or Marianne had, at least, and Edward, certainly), but they had always treated his games as just that, and this was not a game.

To similarly bare his heart with fond thoughts of a woman he had only just met would prove only straining for all involved.

In the end, he filled his letter with vague pleasantries and mentioned his (entirely truthful) hope to join another expedition by the end of the year.

_It is my fondest hope that Mother's health has seen some Improvement since your last missive. Please give my Regards to Colonel Brandon, my beloved Nieces, and the rest of our Family._

Your loving brother,  
Henry

**Author's Note:**

> This is very specifically movie canon, because my interest in ever reading the book and discovering that my favourite character isn't as adorably atlas-obsessed is fairly low. Someday, someday! ^_- In any case, I've fudged various historical Stuff and Things for the purposes of the story, and I am entirely unrepentant; the specifics of how an Englishman living in New England ended up on a brig in the Antarctic is a question for another day. :| Story is set in approximately 1826, making our hero 28.
> 
> Also, in case I never write any more episodes in his life, he and Miss Morton marry and have a happy and satisfying life together. Just for the record.
> 
> _Also_ also, Sqbr was kind enough to draw [a very nice illustration of Henry aboard ship](http://sqbr.deviantart.com/art/Sense-and-Sensibility-Henry-163291902), and so I quite recommend you go to look at that. ♥


End file.
